


St. Jude

by badboyaccountant



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Bad first aid advice, F/M, Funny Frank, Grumpy Karen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-22
Updated: 2016-03-22
Packaged: 2018-05-28 11:40:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,779
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6327523
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/badboyaccountant/pseuds/badboyaccountant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Karen shoots Frank on accident. He takes it pretty well.</p>
            </blockquote>





	St. Jude

Life had taken a predictably dangerous turn for Karen Page. 

She'd been looking for something dangerous to investigate, despite Ellison's protests, without fully understanding the risk involved in angering crime lords.

Ellison thought Karen wanted to make Ben proud, or to prove something to herself, maybe even impress her former employers. He didn't look hard enough.

Karen just wanted truth, more than anything, beyond peace, beyond happiness; at any cost.

When she published the testimonial of an "anonymous" victim of the Yakuza kidnappings, she felt more than just a sense of relief. Karen felt release.

To be fair, Turk Barrett wasn't the hardest man to find. One call to his probation officer and Karen was listening in on his version of events, and taking pictures of the slowly healing gash above his ankle. She nodded along to his grandiose story; she even laughed at his jokes.

Her strategy was working, until the package came. It was a little wooden box covered in brown paper and a dainty string bow, with the inviting words: To Karen Page. An intern brought it in and watched Karen open it.

Blood poured out onto her desk. A single pearly molar rolled out of the box. "Close your mouth before your teeth fall out," the inside of the wrapping read.

The intern was screaming, the world was spinning, and chaos returned to Karen's life.

Ellison's orders were as followed: Grab something to eat, go home, lock your doors, and check in every two hours.

Karen was officially on alert, sitting up in bed, glasses and pajamas on, trying in vain to distract herslef with old crime exposés. As much as she tried to calm herself, the box had rattled her, deeper than she had initially thought.

So when she heard her living room window creak, she didn't hesitate to pull the .380 out of the underwear drawer.

"Who is it?" she demanded, creeping in slowly, her stance practiced and percected.

A figure shifted by the window. Someone was there. She aimed down and pulled the trigger. 

BAM.

The figure shouted in pain, then hit the ground with a deep thud.

"DAMN IT, KAREN, IT'S ME!" a familiar voice yelled.

"FRANK?" she shouted in disbelief. She rushed over to him, as he laid on the ground clutching his left thigh. "WHY DIDN'T YOU SAY SOMETHING?!" her voice went angry as she looked down at his bloodied leg.

"I was going to!" he defended himself, "But you shot me!"

She had no response, her head was still spinning. Why was he here? What was he doing? How do you treat a bullet wound?

"Is the bullet still in there?" she stood upright before the smell of blood hit her.

"Yeah," he replied in simple acceptance, laying back on the floor like a rug.

"How do you, oh God, I can't take out a bullet," Karen put her hand to her forehead and started to pace. "I don't know what to do."

"Got any tweezers?" Frank asked between grunts.

"What?" Karen wasn't following.

"I'll use my hands then," he sighed in resolution.

He reached down and squeezed, reaching into the wound and digging for the bullet.

Karen immediately yelled and began pulling his hands away, until he made a small "aha" noise between groans of pain. A single, shiny bullet rested between his fingers.

"WHOO," he shouted, smacking the wound and laying back down.

Karen was almost out. It was just too much to watch, too much to deal with this late. She didn't sign up for this kind of shit. She didn't have to deal with Frank Castle pulling metal from his leg in her living room.

When she finally decided she should cut her losses and hyperventilate, Frank's next request came.

"Can you heat up a knife?" he asked calmly.

The gravity of the situation hit her. This was it. Either she got with it now, or he bled out on her carpet. And he knew what he was doing. From the looks of it, he'd pulled bullets out of himself before, as horrifying a prospect as that was.

She barely believed the next words out of her mouth. "How hot should it be?"

"Just after it turns red," he replied, unphased by her sudden change of mood.

She picked out a wide blade, cranked up the stove on high, and waited for the very tip of the knife to redden.

"You're gonna have to do this," he told her.

She'd seen it in movies, but never had she even considered the real life practice of cauterizing a wound. Frank was so nonchalant about it, like it was an everyday experience. But for Karen, this was all new territory.

"Whatever I do, you have to keep pressing it down," he instructed.

"How do I know when to stop?" 

"Give it a full 30 seconds," he told her calmly, his deep gaze making sure she was with him.

"Are you ready?" Karen bit down on her lip.

"Do it."

Karen breathed in.

The knife hissed as it made contact, and Frank's body began to jerk. He was trying his best not to scream, but he lost it soon enough.

"30," she said aloud.

"20," she was pressing her free arm on his chest to keep him down.

"15," he had grabbed onto her arm with both hands.

"10," her heart rate was falling, her breath evening. 

"5," she realized, this kind of fixable chaos was exactly what she needed.

Frank groaned in relief as she let the knife up. She looked at the wound, but could barely see the hole with the limited light and pools of blood.

"I think you're okay," she sighed in relief.

"Let me see," he released his grip on her arm and began to sit up.

They sat on the floor for a minute, him inspecting the wound, and her trying to reconcile her mood with the situation.

A knock came at the door. In her panic, Karen had forgotten about the neighbors entirely.

"Did I hear a gunshot?" a neighbor asked in a panic.

"Oh no, it was a firecracker outside, I thought the same," Karen nodded reassuringly, quickly covering her tracks.

"And all that screaming?" the neighbor looked entirely unconvinced.

"Room below I think," Karen yawned.

"You're sure?" she asked with an eyebrow raised.

"You know it's just lonesome me in here," she tried to charm her.

"Fine," the woman sighed. "Night."

"Night," Karen called after her.

When Karen turned around, Frank wasn't on the floor anymore.

She found him in the bathroom with a bottle of her whiskey, blotting at the raw heap of flesh. The blood was gone, but the skin was so horrifying and misshapen.

"Good job," he nodded at her, rinsing off the wound.

In the harsh bathroom light, she could finally see him, and surprisingly, he looked better than before. His hair had grown, bruises mostly faded, cuts healing. He looked rested maybe, happier even.

He caught her stare. "What is it?"

"Are you hungry?" she asked instead of prying.

"Hungry?" He looked up at her, barely cracking a smile.

"I have pho in the fridge. I could heat some up."

"Uh," he began, eyes shifting around, "Yeah, I'll take some." He did this sometimes, when he was nervous or uncomfortable. He would turn his head, his voice would crack. Karen always chalked it up to his not being accustomed to kindness lately.

She poured the soup evenly into two bowls and hummed along with the sound of the microwave.

When he finally staggered out of the bathroom, missing half a pants leg and clutching at the gauze on his thigh, she handed him his bowl and took her seat on the couch.

He paused a moment before following her, expecting more questions. She instead turned on the TV and calmly stirred the soup.

He sat next to her, leaving a comfortable and reasonable distance between them.

"So why did you break into my apartment?" she asked the second he sat down.

He sighed and looked away from her, half embarassed. "Well, y'know, I keep tabs."

She coughed, anger starting to rise again. "So you've been following me for all this time and haven't said a word?"

"I heard about your gift," he confessed. "Read the article, too."

"And you thought I couldn't protect myself," she sighed, realizing Frank underestimated her just as badly as every other man in her life.

"No, I wanted to help."

She looked at him in shock. "What?"

"I'm good with this kind of thing," a half smile played on his face.

"Good?" she challenged, "Like getting arrested good?"

"Okay, you don't have to bring that up-," he held out a hand in defense.

"Or good at killing everyone who crosses you?" she spat this time.

"Are you alright, Karen?" he asked slowly, noticing how shaken she was.

The words 'I'm fine' had become her standard response to that question, but now there was no point in lying. Frank was the only person she knew who appreciated the truth as much as she did.

"It's been a rough day," she admitted.

"Rough month more like," he commented under his breath.

She looked away, "You look better," she choked out before the hought strangled her.

He smiled, looking shy again. "I sleep now."

"Is that the secret?" she sighed, tucking her knees to her chest.

A timer on her phone went off, signaling it was 1:00 in the morning, and time for her to check in with the office. She sent a quick text to Ellison, saying she was safe, and not mentioning why.

"The news is coming on," she reached for the remote and turned the volume up slightly.

It was her favorite section, where they brought in the cutest animals from the shelter and set up an adoption call line.

Tonight, a German Shepherd puppy was licking the faces of every news caster and playing fetch with the meteorologist.

"Aww," she let out involuntarily. "Isn't he sweet?"

Frank didn't respond, and she knew how much he liked dogs.

"Frank, are you awake?" she barely nudged him.

"Yep," he answered quickly, sounding half asleep. 

She couldn't turn him out now, not like this, and in truth, she didn't want to. Despite reason, she felt safer with him there. Not to mention how sorely she needed company.

"I'll get a blanket," she sighed, standing from the couch.

"Karen," he called softly.

He reached out and took her hand gently, closing his own palm over top of hers.

"I want you to keep it," he spoke tenderly.

Karen looked down. 

The bloody bullet rested in her palm.

"JESUS."

Frank cackled.


End file.
